


Silly Little Beast

by CactusWithAGun



Series: Kids Will Be Kids [2]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: AHAHAAHAHAH ANGST LOL, AHAHHAHSISHDIUSHIU FLUFF YAY, Also Happy motherfucking Thanksgiving y'all!, Ancient Fuelweaver being a dad - freeform, Ancient Fuelweaver is a giant softie who rules the Ruins, Ancient Fuelweaver needs a friend and I propose Wendy to be that friend., Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Crawling Horror, Cutting (but more accidental??), Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, I needed a dick character and Warbucks is the perfect dick character, OOC, The Ruins - Freeform, This is a continuation of "Mademoiselle" btw!!, Yeah Warbucks is alive in my AU, implied suicidal thoughts, terrorbeak
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:01:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27727837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CactusWithAGun/pseuds/CactusWithAGun
Summary: Sometimes you need some alone time, and that’s great. Sometimes you get some unwanted company, and that’s fine too.And sometimes, you’re interrupted by a giant shadowy, skeletal, overruling beast of bone that creates nothing but the element of sin and maltreatment of the Constant. And that’s perfectly fine.And sometimes, you find out that every reanimated skeleton has an atrium, too.
Relationships: Warly & Warbucks, Wendy & Ancient Fuelweaver
Series: Kids Will Be Kids [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2050443
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	Silly Little Beast

**Author's Note:**

> So I decided to ditch my unfinished, horrible Ancient Fuelweaver story and rewrite it into a short story (that may have more parts later?? Dunno. Not like chapters but other stories that continue the tale) 
> 
> This is my first official Man and Monster Story. This will be a series, but I don't know yet? They will be separate stories. And once I edit it, I have a full chapter story to share with you about another bond bewteen DST Man and DST Monster! Or... Momster? We just don't know.
> 
> But!! Happy Thanksgiving everyone! May you enjoy time with the people you love!

Ever since the night of the cutting, Warly has been a lot more observant of Wendy Carter. She vows not to do it again under his presence, but who knows what she counts as presence and what she counts as being alone.

And of course, as expected of the african-french man, she would take advantage of this “alone time”.

….

“What do you mean she’s gone!?” Warly shouted at the gentleman hunter, who huffed in his presence.

“ ‘said she’s gone.” Warbucks puffed, “did I stutter?”

“No, I mean– why is she gone?”

“Beats me. Could care less though, that child’s got things going on with her.”

“Monsieur, it’s more than that. She’s been doing awful things lately, and I’m extremely worried for the child!”

“Eh, she’s twelve. Twelve is about the time they go rogue.”

“No, you don’t understand, she’s going through–”

“She’s going through her sister’s death. She’s been going through her sister’s death since she was a youngin’. What she needs is some well attuned electric shock therapy or something to get her sister out of her mind.”

“Ele-electric shock therapy!? Are you out of your mind!?”

“Worked on a relative of mine, never thought about the boy again.”

“You’re crazy, she’s a child!”

“And I’m an old man. We have different ideas on how children should be brought up. Now go find your little brat and tell her that I’ve got a surprise for her.”

Warly gasped, “what!?”

“Only teasin’. Go find her if you care about her so much. I could care less, maybe she gets eaten by a giant or something so her death comes faster. Not like we can die here anyway.”

Warly was infuriated by the ignorance of Warbucks. While a gentleman, he treated others like literal crap sometimes. Seemed like he only ever treated Wilson with any respect. Defeated, he huffed once and turned away.

Poor Warly.

….

The cook went back to Wendy’s tent to see that it had still been empty. Not a soul inside, or so he thought.

Upon further inspection, there were some items she normally carried with her left behind. She always had flowers in her pocket, sometimes butterflies, but the wings were torn and destroyed on her bunny puff roll. There were flowers scattered around her tent, almost like a garden, and one giant red flower that stuck out.

_Abigail’s flower._

“Abigail.” Warly mustered up nervously. If only he could help her go after her sister. She’d know where she was. But it seemed like now, there would be no easy way in or out of this.  
He would have to look for her himself, wouldn’t he?

_Let’s see,_ he thought, _if I were running away, where would I go? Somewhere secluded, somewhere dark, somewhere warm and soothing, somewhere…_

Warly gulped. There was only one secluded, dark, warm, and arguably soothing place in the Constant he knew of. Not the forest. No, not the swamp.

But the Ruins.

….

Wendy trailed like a lost child down a train track in low hopes. How long had she been wandering? Nearly an hour, certainly. Takes a long time to get to the ruins if you don’t know where you’re going. 

She didn’t exactly know where the Ruins were, she just knew that they were north of the cave entrance she had entered. But any way can be north if you face the wrong way. Had she had her back turned to the north this whole time?

Her teeth grit, her hands clenched, a razor and a rose in her skirt pocket; a spear in her grasp in case of anything. A sigh. She continued down the makeshift trail, she wandered effortlessly. If no one was going to leave her be, she would go away. Somewhere… anywhere. Anywhere far away. 

And by god, were the Ruins far from camp.

There was a sign. A tentapiller. And from that moment onward, she knew exactly where she was, and where she was going.

….

After another while of sanity draining hiking, she had practically been absorbed by the void of darkness ahead, the crimson red lighting of the ground being the only light source in the next mile. The Heart of the Ruins was small, yet, housed a soothing feeling to the young, dead eyed child. Most knew she was too young to go some place like this alone, but she was only trying to further herself somewhere no one would ever find her. She had grown so very tired of the main camp, of the people, of the way she was treated like a child and nothing more, like she was crazy for never getting over her sister’s death, like she was nothing but a mess of nihilism.

She really was nihilistic as hell, wasn’t she? 

“Deep… dark… the void calls me,” she quietly muttered through her loss of insane breath. Her head hurt, she was seeing things. Crawling Horrors, Terrorbeaks, and small dotted white eyes, staring into her soul.

“And yet, I still follow this path. No one will find me in the heart of Hell.”

She was a dark, destroyed child. She had no childhood to remember but the times with her twin sister, older by only a minute. Her mother made quick work of the birth, and also made quick work of herself after she suddenly disappeared from Wendy and Abigail Carter’s life. Her father entrusted the children to take care of each other as he would them, and when Abigail fell, Wendy had always blamed herself for the wrongdoing of disobeying her father. But she didn’t care about what her father wanted. She cared about what Abby wanted. And surely, Abby would have wanted to be alive. 

She always thought that after Abigail’s death that she would be better off joining her, but when she was taken to the Constant, a place of mystery where everything stays the same, death is no longer. She was immune to death as Abby was immune to the telltale hearts or touchstones or meat effigies or anything that could bring a ghost back to life. She never understood why. She didn’t know why Charlie, or better yet, Maxwell, came up with such devious rules as a renegade.

She decided so. If she wasn’t going to die, might as well live miserably. That’s how she lived.

….

The Heart. The Heart of the Ruins was cold, yet welcoming to her. She was not afraid of anything anymore. 

Wendy sat down by the edge of the Gateway, two legs dangling off the end of the platform and looking down into the bleakness.

“I stare into the abyss,” she says with monotone vocals, “and the abyss stares back.”

She pulls out the razor from her pocket and looks at it. It’s bloodstained with a child’s blood; her own blood. 

Wendy notices she still has the bandages on her arms, so with the razor, she slices the bandages off. She barely even hesitates to put it against her wrist, but she finds herself reluctant to cut.

She almost feels bad. Bad that she has always lived as a disobedient child; she disobeyed her father by not protecting her sister, she disobeyed Warly by not staying put in the tent the night of the cutting, by leaving Abigail alone.

She thought immensely about her sister for a good moment. She knew Abigail knew about this. She hadn’t exactly told her anything or showed her wrists to her, but she knew that Abigail was smarter than she looked. 

She knew that Abby knew. And yet, she somehow did not care. 

While she did deeply care for her twin, she felt no remorse for her in the ballpark of “wrist-slitting”. She didn’t want to even be near anyone at that moment. Not even Abigail. She loved her, but even she needed her alone time. It was rare to see her without Abigail, yet, it almost felt charming to be alone.

She stared at her own wrist, large scars from previous lacerations. And she didn’t feel bad making another.

She cut into her palm, but she cut hard, because she was startled by the ground rumbling. Wendy squealed in pain for how she had accidentally cut so deep into her palm. She saw the blood rush and spill from her lifeline in her palm and wanted to cry. It was so much more painful than the last few cuttings.

But a question remained, what was that rumbling?

Wendy looked back, and, to her shock, there was something behind her. Something big. Something scary.

Something overruling.

Any beast, with whatever sense they decide, can sense blood. A hound, a crocodog, even an eyeplant and lureplant. So when she realized that something was there, something terrifying to her eyes, she knew it was out for blood. _Her blood._

And yet, she did nothing.

Wendy simply sat there, hands in the rocks; razor in one, blood in the other. If she was destined to die because of her foolishness, then so be it. She could always go back from the Ruins, although it would be a long ride as a slow ghost. But this was her doomsday. And she accepted that,

The ancient behemoth slowly stalked her on all fours, seeming displeased by the trespassing of his lair. His gateway only had room for one, and was no place for a human to be venturing. Wendy looked indeed human to him, but all good devils entice their prey with kindness, offering deals of sorts.

The monster carefully stood on tiny, thin, and pointing toes as Wendy looked into the darkness. 

“If you’re going to kill me, Fuelweaver, might as well do it quickly.”

The Ancient Fuelweaver raised its head; was she sincere? Was she really looking for an easy way out? This would make the job easier. He could finally save someone.

“Go on. Make it quick.”

With a lowly, raspy, and menacing voice, he spoke; “you naive child, how dare you ask such of me? I do not bow to strangers.”

“Just kill me already,” Wendy’s voice deepened in disgust, “now.”

The Fuelweaver was confused; he had never seen such defeat in a human, let alone defeat in himself. He had felt defeat before. The first time he was defeated, he felt a strange feeling of sorrow. It’s a stigma he knows too well; he is a horrifying beast, therefore feels no pain, but only the want for sin. He was a poor sinner, and all the time did people forget that he was brought up by a beating heart.

He knew that defeat well. The defeat of knowing you’re going to die, and not being able to do a thing about it.

“You dare ask of death so easily?” he toned his voice low, “why, you make my job easier.”

“I know,” Wendy cooed aggressively, “now, we don’t have much time, now do we? If you’re really going to kill me,” she brushed the blood off of her bleeding palm and turned around, “do it.”

She really was sincere, wasn’t she? But killing someone out of spite is no task the great Fuelweaver performs. He kills to save, not serve.

“Why must you ask of death, naive child?” he promptly asked, harking in his words like a true ruler would.

“Why must you be so difficult? Are you not the ruler of the Ruins, dear Fuelweaver? A true ruler would listen to his or her subjects.”

Dumbfounded by these words, the Fuelweaver began to realize that the child was much smarter than she looked. Indeed a ruler listens to their subjects. Yet, it felt so wrong listening to her. He really wasn’t all sin, was he?

His atrium glowed a deep red, and by god, did the softer side begin to come out.

“Why must you wish such a horrible fate?” he interrogated the young one.

“Don’t ask questions and obey.”

“I will not obey unless you give me good reasonings as to why I, the Ancient Monarch, should take you so low.”

Wendy’s eyes were hollow with expression, yet, he could see all of the pain she had endured within the years. It was almost sad to the Weaver.

“Because...” she muttered sorrowly.

“Because?” the Fuelweaver remarked.

Wendy realized she didn’t quite have an answer. A pause infused her. With that, Wendy fell to her knees and began to weep gently, hands into her face.

This was something new to behold. The Ancient Fuelweaver always saw fear. He bestowed fear because of the intensity of it. He saw others cower in fear of his mighty stature! He was a fearless being that made others frightful of his appearance! But never once in his lifetime did he see one cry at his front. She was crying, and he could tell that she wasn’t exactly afraid. This was not fear. It was guilt.

A true Fuelweaver is not one that understands what guilt is in a human, but knows it very well in themselves. He had felt guilt before in not being able to “save anyone”. Perhaps, this was his one and only chance to show that he was capable. Capable of saving someone. 

“My liege,” he lowered his head to the younger, as he towered over her, getting on all fours and ducking down to reach her height, “you feel worthless, do you not?”

“I _am_ worthless. I am worth nothing. Not since Abigail died,” Wendy murmured in her weeping.

“Is that what this all is about, young child?”

“Not entirely, but why do _you_ care? Are you not just a vile beast of marrow? Keratin? Nightmares? You do not care for someone like me. You just wish to see me dead.”

He was greatly offended by these terms, but refused to admit it. He was a stronger beast than most anticipated, and his heart was still there.

“I am not just a beast, but someone who wants to save the Constant-landers. Ever since my bringing, I have known only rage and guilt, which seems to be what you are experiencing, child.”

Wendy was taken back by this, for she hadn’t exactly realized her own emotions well enough to admit to them. She had been feeling rage. She had been feeling guilt. She had been feeling like a Fuelweaver. Rage and guilt.

“You know,” the great Weaver lowered down onto his stomach, laying down almost like a graceful deer, “you and I may not be so different after all. We might have some similar traits; we feel pain exactly the same, although we do not bleed the same. We feel emotions, although we do not feel the same. We cry from our eyes, but we do not cry the same. These small, salty tears coming from your eyes show that you have care in your heart. A bad person does not cry, no matter the cause.”

Wendy finally looked up, but that was only because the behemoth took a claw and raised her chin upward to his face, “but… you don’t cry.”

“I have cried.”

“You have?”

“Of course. I feel sorrow just like you. I have the sentience of any other Constant-lander, therefore I am capable of feelings like a human, just like you.”

“You say that like it’s normal.”

“From my many experiences with you humans fighting me, from Charlie, I know well what humans feel. I know they can feel sorrow, guilt, happiness.”

“I do not feel happiness.”

“You are feeling happiness right now. I know it. You are happy because someone understands you. I understand, my liege. We may take completely different forms, yet, we can both suffer. I’ve suffered your wrath, therefore you can suffer mine.”

Wendy let out a chuckle, she felt almost blissful out of nowhere. It felt good to have someone who _really_ understood. Not like Abby, not like Warly. But like a monster who had felt the same things she had felt.

“Thank you, Fuelweaver.” she calmly stirred a voice, more blissful than her last.

“It is my duty to watch over the ruins and whatever comes forth,” the Ancient Fuelweaver explained, “it is my pleasure,” he said while bowing, “now come, I think there may be someone waiting for you. They are looking for you.”

“I want to stay with you”

“You cannot. There is no food, no drink, no sunlight, and the air quality is repulsive. You need the surface.”

“Fuelweaver?”

“Wendy…”

“Can I give you something?”

He drew a blank for a moment; “a gift?”

Wendy pulled out, from her skirt pocket, a small gathering of flowers she had always carried in her pocket. They were only a little withered and damp from staying in the pocket for so long, but nonetheless, their color flurried nicely.

The Fuelweaver took the flowers with two claws and put them in his hands, his eyes glowing a bright red in appreciation, “thank you, Wendy Carter. I will keep these.”

“They won’t last long, but, I think you should keep them for their last moments.”

“I will take care of them for as long as I can as if they were my own.”

“Thank you… goodbye.”

“Sayonora, my liege.”

….

Warly had been frantic looking for the poor girl. He had just been so worried now. Too worried. He worried for her safety, her wellness, if she was hurting herself or not. He was too worried.

But it wasn’t long before he finally caught a glimpse of something. A lock of golden hair, in fact, a head of golden hair.

He was practically crying when he saw her, calling her name out and running towards her and embracing her tightly whilst sobbing.

Wendy did not cry, however. She did not feel sad. She felt rather blessed, if anything, to be in the embrace of someone who loved her. And she knew that if there were three people who loved her, they were Abigail, Warly, and a silly little beast from the Ruins.

She embraced him back, and said nothing as they returned to the base camp which they called home.


End file.
